


Look (/feel) like death warmed up

by hypnagogia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Drabble, Gen, M/M, Mentions of alcohol, Not quite creative use of swear words, Pre-Slash, Tom is tired, same age au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25962175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypnagogia/pseuds/hypnagogia
Summary: British (informal): to look or feel very sick.In which Tom is exhausted, and Harry is a decent flatmate.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49





	Look (/feel) like death warmed up

Tom Marvolo Riddle was a simple man. On weekdays, he would go to work at 9, sweet-talk the absolute incompetent nincompoops that were the Wizengamots into doing his biddings, and leave at 5. On weekends, he would don his dark lord robes, Apparate to his decoy lair, deal with his slightly useful simpering underlings, and go back to his actual lair—a two-storey flat in East London he shared with his somewhat-agreeable flatmate for the last three years. Wash, rinse, repeat. Under normal circumstances, Mondays were nothing but a day for him.

This particular Monday, however, had proven to be different.

The Wizengamots had truly proven themselves to be nowhere near deserving the _wizen_ part of their title and every bit as useless as the regurgitated bird fap he _knew_ they were. Albus Dumbledore and his Order of the Flaming Chickens, of course, took the whole farce as a chance to spew the load of tripe Dumbledore’s belly was full with. Daily Prophet ate them up, _of course_ —which meant that he had to deal with those pests as well. By the time he was done, he was left with a pounding headache and an insatiable thirst for a bottle of Ogden’s. 

Simply put, Tom was _exhausted._ So when he got a ‘You’re late,’ followed with a rather abrupt ‘You do realise that you look like death warmed up, right?’ in lieu of a greeting when he popped from the Floo, he didn’t even try to deign his flatmate with responses other than a glare. Most people would cower upon seeing such expression on his face, but of course Harry did not. If anything, he looked a little amused. 

He _felt_ like death warmed up, but there was no way on the seventh circle of hell would he ever voice it. 

‘I don’t see how it's any of your concern, Harry,’ he said slowly, enunciating each syllable clearly to make sure his fatigue did not show in his articulation, ‘Kindly fuck off.’

Harry had the audacity to snort at that. The _nerve_ of him. ‘Yeah, nope, not happening,’ Harry said. It said a lot about their relationship—about Tom’s control—that he did not take his wand upon hearing the hint of a choked giggle on Harry’s tone. ‘You don’t say _don’t_ or _it’s_ , you think the use of such, and I quote, _useless abbreviations_ should be considered a criminal offence—you _hate_ using Muggle cuss words, too, so the use of _fuck_ is a clear telling. Say, what did your useless sycophants do this time? Something so ridiculous Dumbledore finally managed to turn the tables on you?’

Tom blinked at Harry. Did Harry acquaint himself with anyone from The Ministry recently? She-Weasley was a sports journalist, she would not have been there to write whatever codswallop Daily Prophet would have published tomorrow, nor was Miss Granger since none of the shitstorms concerned the Department of Mystery... But then again, words travel fast—even more so in the Wizarding part of Britain. Harry finding out about the whole debacle from any of them was not entirely implausible.

‘Nope, no new friend on The Ministry, not Ginny or Hermione. It’s you. You said those things out loud when you got out of Floo,’ Harry’s face strained, trying to bottle down his cackle. ‘Yeah, you said _that_ out loud, too. Hence my replies.’ 

_Oh._ Small mercies _did_ exist, Tom supposed. He almost thought Harry had managed to deteriorate his Occlumency—which was _highly_ alarming, seeing as he had known Harry for years and he knew for a fact that Harry had no talent in mind magic.

‘You voiced that out again, by the way. Nope, still shit at Occlumency here. No need to rub that on my face, really,’ Harry rolled his eyes. The slight expression of annoyance, however, went right away after he realised that Tom still hadn't said anything—consciously, that is. ‘Tom. Did I break you?’ Harry frowned, his left hand waving in front of Tom’s face. ‘Tom? Oh well, I’m feeling extra gracious today, so—tea or anything stronger? We can talk about whatever happened.. Or not,’ he hastily added. ‘No pressure, Mr Tom A Dildo Lover.’ 

Tom blinked at that.

‘That was a play on your name—what do you posh arses call it again? Anagram?’ Harry chuckled, the soundof it grating on Tom's ears. ‘Clever, I know. You can use that, by the way, if you ever need a pseudonym. Never let it be said I’m not a charitable person.’

If he wasn't so _tired_ , he would've caught Harry's subtle emphasis on _pseudonym_.

Alas, he was knackered.

‘..something stronger, please,’ Tom finally said after a beat, and added, ‘thank you, Harry.’

Harry was the one who blinked then. He blinked a few more times, before finally replying, ‘right, you’re welcome.’ He looked at his shoes, which Tom recognised as one of his many nervous ticks. ‘An expression of gratitude? From you? That’s new,’ he mumbled. Was that a blush in Harry’s face Tom saw? Before he managed to dwell more on it, Harry coughed rather forcefully. ‘Nope, not a blush there you saw, it was _nothing_. And on the gratitude thing? Not a bad thing right there, no fish smells, nope. Not complaining here. Okay, you know what, I’m just going to brew my tea and check if we still have _something stronger_ on the fridge for you. Would Ogden’s be okay?’ he turned around, hurrying to the direction of their modest kitchenette. ‘You make yourself cosy in the armchair. Decide if you want to talk or not. Either way is cool with me!’ he called out.

(They ended up talking about whatever Tom’s alcohol-loosened mouth spewed out until three in the morning. Most of them were nonsensical codswallop, but none of them had any problem with that—at least until they woke up grappling for the last Sobering Draught on their potions shelf.)

(Tom had _won_ , of course. Auror Potter could suffer for all Undersecretary Riddle cared.)

* * *

‘You look like death warmed up.’

‘I _feel_ like death warmed up, Tom,’ Harry grumbled, ‘can you stop looking so smug? And hand me that Sobering Draught now. Please.’

‘You should act a little more grateful, you know. I do not do this for just anyone,’ Tom said, seated on a chair across Harry’s desk in the Auror's Office, amusement clear on his face. ‘Imagine if I was not kind enough to pick this up on my way to lunch.’

Harry’s cheeks pinked at that. He glared at Tom. ‘If it isn’t for the fact that I have not managed to do a single work today, Sobering Draught or not, I would’ve told you to sod off. Prick,’ he grumbled, ‘Merlin knows why I thought cheering your pompous arse was a good idea last night.’ 

‘Merlin knows, indeed,’ Tom mused. 

**Author's Note:**

> I've been abandoning my thesis for a month due to severe academic block (is that a thing?). I've also been having a writer's block for months. This was written in between stressing over said thesis, finally completed at 5 a.m. after weeks of trying to build something resembling a plot. Idk if this makes any sense, though I sure hope it does. If you find any grammar mistake or typo, feel free to point that out in the comments. I'd prolly do some edits when I wake up later. Thanks for reading!


End file.
